


But the stars weren't wrong, the time felt right

by little_fella (na_shao)



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hanukkah, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 22:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13374477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/na_shao/pseuds/little_fella
Summary: Feeling lulled by Percival’s thumb slipping back and forth across his temple, Credence breathes in deeply, curling his arms around Theseus, snuggles into his warmth. “Hanukkah is the festival of lights and we celebrate it to commemorate the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.”





	But the stars weren't wrong, the time felt right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maggiedragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/gifts), [LotusRox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/gifts).



> This is a holiday gift for my best friends out there, [Maggie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/maggiedragon/pseuds/maggiedragon) and [Lynx](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LotusRox/profile), brought to you by your local gay Jew. Hi!
> 
> You are the best people ever and I am so lucky to call you two my friends. I love you so much and hope this fic shows how much I adore you and appreciate you.
> 
> <3
> 
> Title comes from MGMT's _Hand It Over._

 

_Temporary?_

_Gold doesn’t feel temporary on his ring finger._

Percival lies in bed, eyes closed, trying to go back to sleep, but it’s too late— his husbands’ voices have already started filtering in, soft, liquid and warm, and so he begins focusing on the sounds that anchor him to the opening of a new day: the gentle rattle of the kneazles eating breakfast in the kitchen, the slight hum of the outdoor life, the faint ins and outs of Credence’s and Theseus’ breathing, the peculiar cracks of knuckles and bones.

_White aspen skin and silver flecks, coral brick of flesh—_

He’s met with what little he can see — barely more than outlines — and it’s the touch of plump pale thighs, the soft thump of his limbs against the sheets, the citrus ghost of Credence’s cologne that he breathes in the sheets; Percival’s body eventually curving in to meet his partners’, his hands a heat against Credence’s stomach, against Theseus’ hips.

Their familiar silhouettes fill in with a few details, the rest a moving blur of crusty eyes and heavy dark lashes.

“No, no, _no,_ Thes, love, Hanukkah doesn’t have anything to do with Christmas,” Credence says gently. “That’s a common misconception.”

Theseus frowns in confusion, scrunches his face as he tries to remember; Credence can almost see the gears turning in his head. “But, baby, I was so sure, though,” he says quietly, voice muffled in the crook of the younger man’s neck and grating coming out of his throat, this rough tone and sharp hues of sleep scrambling in.

He’s so different, this Thes. Left unguarded. Not as serious as the Minister he puts suits on for every day; not as untouchable as Theseus Scamander, the war hero— Theseus, _Thes,_ sometimes broken by nightmares and very often smacked between the ribs with waves of memories and trembling fragility.

Feeling lulled by Percival’s thumb slipping back and forth across his temple, Credence breathes in deeply, curling his arms around Theseus, snuggles into his warmth. “Hanukkah is the festival of lights and we celebrate it to commemorate the rededication of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem.”

That gives Theseus pause, and he pulls back a little to look at him. “Care to enlighten me further _— no puns intended —_ on this?”

The static, blue electricity he feels at the brush of his fingers on his lower back fuzzes through his body so gently.

“Seleucids — Syrian-Greeks — tried to push their culture and beliefs on us instead of our own culture, and we defeated their army to drive them out of our land and reclaim the Holy Temple of Jerusalem by lighting the Menorah in there, which was lit every evening on a one-day supply of olive oil that lasted for eight days, actually, until new, uncontaminated oil was made. Hanukkah is about celebrating this. It’s a lot about… _life,_ and being proud of our existence, I guess? Or that’s what I think it is, for me, at least.”

Percival pauses in his movements and slowly cracks open an eye, barely registers the pain that runs along the length of his left shoulder. “While I like the meaning of all of this, I have to remind you that it is quite a No-Maj thing to celebrate Christmas, though.”

“Same for Hanukkah, really,” Theseus mumbles, the pale outline of his neck scar a golden whirlwind of snow. He lets out a slow breath as the younger man leaves the feather of a dusty kiss upon his ginger curls, a sweet spot, a tender twirl of gentleness. “Who cares, Perce? As if the wizarding community didn’t have roots in Muggle religions and a complete foot in their area, anyway.”

“Credence gets a free pass for everything related to No-Maj things, that’s all.”

Credence giggles, hums against the golden-dawn curls.

“I should have seen this coming,” Theseus grumbles, lashes sticky with sunlight. He moves lower, presses his nose to Credence’s chest; brushes kisses over his skin like pale snow reaching the asphalt. “And that’s _Muggle_ for you, husband or not, you yankee.”

Murmured pointedly, as usual; a very Theseus thing, and there goes the mischief pounding at the back of his skull, behind smiles and playful words, glistening to the bone.

Percival flashes him a lopsided grin before licking a stripe across the soft expanse of white skin along Credence’s neck; places a kiss to his jugular before pulling away. His fingertips skate across the hot skin of his bare shoulder, open and turned towards him; an invitation, the crow constellation blinking back at him. His eyes flicker back and forth as if following the little dots of black and silver ink that spew golden blood all over his flesh.

“I helped Credence make the sufganiyots and latkes, do I get a free pass too?” Theseus asks, eyes alight with playfulness and soft sparkles and something more, bigger, growing like hunger. He leans in, kisses the underside of Percival’s jaw, dragging his teeth across the curve of the bone there. “I’d be very sad otherwise, Perce.”

“You’re terrible,” Percival grumbles, a faint trace of fond annoyance peeking through his voice; and what Credence hears more strongly is the familiar rhythm of his soft breathing, the complete, serene safety of someone who was saved and brought back to himself. Suddenly, he is looking for the faint, healed scars on Theseus’ wrist, the combined magical tattoos of their flowers, the swirl of copper that slithers its way up around his ribcage, where maps and maps of moles are spread open.

It’s all real.

Real and palpable and _alive._

Percival reaches up to cup his left cheek and Theseus leans into it with a soft sigh as Credence giggles, the poor soul being just _slightly_ squished between his two husbands; feels Percival brush his hand against his hip just like he did during the war; _you’re safe, we’re safe, I love you, I love you, I love you._

Theseus’ heart stutters, something sharp and raw and untrammeled, biting down on his bottom lip as he looks up at him. His gaze falls to Percival’s lips and within a second, his mouth is pressed against his while Credence is trailing his lips over his jaw and along the marble column of his throat _(a white shore),_ until all his tongue can taste is the bittersweet ridge of his collarbone.

The shape of their love is so familiar, now; _akin to breathing,_ Theseus thinks.

Essential.

 

* * *

 

Later on, Credence watches the menorah burn silently in their living room, reciting prayers in his mind _(Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tsivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah*)_ as Ellie the kneazle rubs her wet nose against his knee in a flickering of purrs and soft meows. There’s always a strange aura of comfort whenever he strikes the match and allows the flame to burn up in the air as it touches the shamash first, his Obscurus sometimes curling up in a myriad of exploded sparks around the quiet orange light and reflecting a gray, glittering sort of colour upon Credence’s skin, all over a round spot on the nearing wall.

“I miss them, sometimes,” he murmurs, and that yearning ache again, surfacing; raising its ugly head through the mist, through the pocket it has carved out of muscle, right next to his heart.

Theseus takes a step forward and wraps his arms around him, taking a moment to breathe Credence’s shampoo smell in and to lace their fingers together upon the younger man’s stomach, the smell of comfort running along the tips.

“I know, baby. It’s okay.”

Credence turns his head in the embrace a little to give Theseus a look of confusion and grief. There are little grey bursts of magic dancing through his body, bleeding at the very corner of his eyes. “Isn’t it… _strange,_ to miss people I’ve never really known?”

“Your body could never forget being cherished,” Theseus answers gently; there’s a soft smile hidden somewhere along the lines, tender, encouraging, eyes glinting. “You don’t always need to remember or know people to miss them.”

He finds his fingers tracing patterns on Theseus’ hand absentmindedly; Theseus, who listens to Credence’s breathing for a long minute, hearing it even out while it bleeds through the floor. The pain pulses so harshly through him sometimes that his husbands can feel it take a shape, a blur of black tendrils that crawl like a second skin on his body, a blur of thunder and gray clouds that drown Credence’s usual green-drenched, gold-coated wisps of magic that compliment his Obscurus’ curves of gasoline, turning them to incandescence.

“If only _she_ hadn’t been _there,_ ” and that savage bite to his voice is a recurring visitor of their household, coming on from tempestuous seas; Credence’s breathing turns fast and harsh in a matter of seconds at times, but not today.

He’s just left with bitterness and _what ifs_ this time, and he wonders what hurts the most— to get lost in anger or among the stream of melancholia and sears of shapes.

_“If only she hadn’t been there and hadn’t fucked it all up,” Credence blurted out the year before on the field as he was walking besides Percival after rescuing a family tortured by dark wizards. “If only—” and words got lost and stuck in his throat, his Obscurus curling up around his hands in puffs of dark smoke. “If only I could have saved myself like we have just saved these people—”_

_Percival’s team of Aurors started shifting uncomfortably at the sight of black sawdust wafting through the cold air of dying October, murmuring various “I don’t think Graves is doing okay”, added to a rather funny and out of place “which Graves are you talking about?” to which it was replied the worthy “I don’t want to deal with one Graves feeling bad, let alone two. Don’t get me started on making it three. I’m never dealing with Minister Scamander’s moods ever again.”_

_Percival could have chuckled at these if worrying about Credence wasn’t eating him raw at the moment, his amber eyes open to slits and his lips curved under the team’s apprehensive gaze._

_“Don’t tell me to calm down, Perce, I fucking swear to God,” Credence mumbled, and he was trying so hard to pack his anger back in only to fail in an even more severe manner. Feet muted on the damp soil as he walked closer, the older man rounded the bushes and Credence closed his eyes just as his husband came to a stop, tempered his snarl. “Don’t.”_

_“I wasn’t planning on doing that,” Percival answered. There wasn’t any misplaced drool of warmth or sharpness, just words collected like a balm on an open wound, quiet, liquid, measured. “You can’t change what happened. I can’t change what Grindelwald did to me. We can’t change the many ways war has wrecked Theseus; but Mercy Lewis, Credence, we can look forward to making sure these things don’t happen to other people. Being angry is good and sane but you need to focus, now. We need to get this family to St. Mungo’s.”_

_Acres of shattered glass; he’s a thousand acres of shattered glass on the ground._

_Percival's hand was at his temple, brushing back a stray strand of hair before he whirled around to look at his Aurors. “Get a healer to check on the little girl. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”_

_"Fifteen minutes? Very optimistic anticipation of how this discussion is going to go," the younger man manages to let out through gritted teeth, revealing more his struggle on control rather than pure anger propelled at his partner._

_"I’m not about to coo you and throw fucking useless words at you that would do no comfort and would be the silliest thing in this situation," Percival said, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose. He left his forehead pressed against his, sighing, the palm of his hand sneaking on Credence’s forearm to steady him— his veins went a little black at how hard he was trying to maintain his balance with the Obscurus. “You are allowed your anger and pain, baby, I didn’t say you weren’t. Just ride the wave, let it burn, but don’t let it burn_ you. _”_

_Black splinters pressed against his skull until he realised it was Credence’s fingers curling in and out of their human form, sometimes black matter, sometimes pale, scarred flesh._

_“I’m trying, Perce.”_

_And indeed he was trying, resisting the urge to dry heave, resisting the pull of darkness and the unbalance of anger; but anger got things done, and Credence needed this, needed this more than he could form words in thin air._

Theseus pushes an errant strand of dark hair out of his face, feels the silk curls brush the tip of his fingers. “But _you_ are _here_ now,” he counters, choosing his words carefully, though Credence only blinks; probably expected some more elaboration on the point, which Theseus eventually provides. “You have grown flowers out of her wounds.”

Exactly what Theseus had said when they had exchanged rings, a few years back— _you have grown flowers out of her wounds; became the best version of yourself, the frightened boy now fierceless and gorgeous, the lost boy who now dances along the rivers of anger and flowers._ All of that said as he touched his hand, the inside of his wrist— their wrists; Percival’s, too, where Theseus' red iris flared with pride and the purple shade of Credence’s anemone blushed under the steady stream of praise; of belonging.

“Thes is right, and Hanukkah’s a time of healing, isn’t it? _Let it burn_ and heal,” comes Percival’s voice as he plasters the length of his body against Credence’s and Credence makes a soft, contented noise when Percival pulls him in closer, burying his head into the curve of his shoulder and sighing at Theseus’ caresses. “Your parents would be so proud of you today.” The taste of black tea clings to his lips as he kisses Credence and runs his fingers through his dimly lit black hair. “ _We_ are so proud of you today and every other day, my love.”

The candles’ wicks are dwindling rays of setting sun and dancing moonlight behind them, a delicate combination, a quiet demonstration of perseverance.

_“Ariel. That was your name before she made you into her Credence. We can have the official papers changed if you’d like.”_

_A spark of joy ignites and fades, flaming out before he can even grasp it; he's distracted enough that he doesn't take notice at first, doesn’t notice until Theseus’ eyes weigh more than he’d like them to upon his frame._

_“It’s my real name and yet— yet, it doesn’t feel like me at all.”_

_Percival frowns._

_“You don’t have to change it, baby. It doesn’t mean that it’s any less “you” if you keep “Credence”. It will always be you, no matter what.”_

_Theseus nods, translucent eyelashes a pale shadow along the seam of his lids. “What if you added Ariel as your second name on your papers? Ariel and Matthew, both of your biological names.”_

_Blinking the panic from his eyes, Credence looks into Percival's face, then into Theseus’, and it all makes sense._

_A sudden rush of blood to the head, and it all makes sense— his Jewish inheritage, the letters sent back and forth between his parents, the right-to-left Hebrew alphabet rough on his tongue however so gentle in its curls and swirls on paper; Ariel, lion of God, Jerusalem’s other name; “ari,”* to burn._

_Let it burn and heal. Let it burn but don’t let it burn you; heal, take care of the flame, use it to your advantage._

_You’ll still be you. You’ll forever be you. There’s no one like you._

The tightness in his chest remains for a little while as well as the agony that pounds against his temples, eventually dissolving at a smile Theseus throws at him that makes his eyes sparkle when Percival laughs around a mouthful of latkes and beef brisket during dinner. He turns Percival’s hand over on the table, palm up and open toward the white ceiling, then covers it with his own, interlacing their fingers, doing the same with Theseus on the other side.

“You realise that it’s a little late for saying Grace now, right? Perce already blessed the food with his filthy mouth,” Theseus smirks while moving his wine around in his glass, the liquid a clear red, an upset sunset.

“Piss off, Thes, as if you hadn’t stuffed yourself _full_ with jelly doughnuts all afternoon,” Percival retorts, squeezing Credence’s hand in his and feeling the warmed-up gold of his ring against his palm. “You blessed the food _way before I did_ with your own dirty mouth, especially knowing what we did in between you two baking—”

 _Credence shouts as Percival pushes deeper into him and sucks a dark purple mark under his ear, his lips falling away from Theseus, loving his body in ways he didn't know it could be loved and worshipped; he’s clutching both of their hands until the bones are crushed, giving  Percival a glance of desperate pleasure, and later on Credence’s thighs are locked around Theseus’ head—_ _  
_

“ _The whole point of this being that I love you both,_ ” Credence finishes with a round, falsely exasperated wave of laughter.

“Love you too,” Percival grins back at him, easy, fluid, so effortlessly in love, “and let me hide some pastries before Thes wipes them out of the surface of the earth, it’d be a _shame..._ ”

It never fails to silence Theseus’ ghosts to hear the two of them laugh. It tastes like the renewal that comes after summer, after the too hot sun has finally settled— cooling water and soft-steamed windows, fire breathed in the very golden veins of leaves and Credence’s lips cold against his, Percival’s hands constellations shining against the small of his back.

The phantom press of his fingertips on Credence’s forearm is enough.

_Alive._

**Author's Note:**

> * In Hebrew: _ברוך אתה יי, אלוהינו מלך העולם, אשר קידשנו במצוותיו, וציוונו להדליק נר של חנוכה,_ is the first of two blessings said every evening while lighting the candles. It means: _praised are You, Our God, Ruler of the universe, Who made us holy through Your commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah lights._ There’s also a third blessing only recited on the first night of Hanukkah.
> 
> * Ari means “lion” in Hebrew, and the posited root “ari” means “to burn.” Ariel is spelled _אֲרִיאֵל_ (ari’el, “lion, “god”).
> 
> * Latkes are potato pancakes of sorts, delicious and crispy; sufganiyots are jelly-filled donuts (that can also be filled with coffee and other sweet things).
> 
> * I love Hanukkah, which is probably my favourite holiday with Rosh Hashanah (new year). My headcanon is that Credence is very much Jewish. 
> 
> Come scream at me on tumblr: angryzilla.tumblr.com
> 
> I don't bite. I promise!


End file.
